


Not Even Paw Prints Left Behind

by ontoxay (xaymak)



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), wolfie and twilight are two different tags for a reason!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaymak/pseuds/ontoxay
Summary: It's not the same wolf.  Itisn't.  But oh, how he wishes it is.
Relationships: Twilight & Wild (Linked Universe), Wild & Wolfie (Linked Universe)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 316





	Not Even Paw Prints Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> regarding,,, man i feel like a,,,,,,,, yes. working on it very very slowly. veeeery very slowly. have this instead! if youve left a comment im so so sorry i will get to it, im responding every 100 words i write and u can tell how thats going!! rip
> 
> shoutout to avivi who helped look over this for me :') avivi if/when u see this i owe u a life debt, i love your commentary and how u make sentences legible jflnvlsdjn

There’s a wolf that follows their group around sometimes. It’s a big grey thing, shackled on one leg like a beast that escaped a dungeon. “That’s Woflie! He’s friendly, don’t worry,” Wind had said in means of an introduction the first time it’d shown up. Wild couldn’t bring himself to explain he didn’t freeze out of fear.

_Do you think you can just waltz back into my life?_ he wanted to scream. He didn’t, though. He kept his mouth shut then and he keeps his mouth shut now.

Maybe it’s a coincidence. Life has a funny way of placing little reminders of what he’s lost, what he’s failed to do, in every turn he takes. The wolf is one of them, and he’s determined to pass it by like every other cruel sliver of century-old memory.

This memory is a wound more fresh than a hundred year ache, though. 

His was a slightly lighter-furred wolf, maybe bigger in size. More silly, given the amount of times he had to fish it out of a river. This one plays with them like a pup sometimes, just like his did, but more often than not it settles with a calm sort of intelligence by Time’s side. The differences aren’t enough to make it hurt any less.

If he doesn’t concentrate, he can still feel the same pleas as before sitting like stones on his tongue. The heavy thickness of malice sticks to his lungs whenever he looks at it for too long. 

He takes care to avoid it.

The others think he’s afraid of it, probably, and he might be. He doesn’t like being around it, and seeing it in the corner of his vision is always enough to make him jump and turn to stare. It’s not as big as his was, not exactly the same color, but ghosts are ghosts. Just because this one happens to be alive doesn’t mean it can’t haunt him.

( _Wolfie_ , Wind had called it, and it was only the shock choking him that kept Wild from saying _no, no that’s my friend, that’s—!_ )

At least it picked up on his unease quickly; the wolf avoids him right back, never approaching from behind after the first few times he spun around with wide eyes and a cry stuck in his throat. It sits on the opposite side of camp, form obscured by the campfire between them. He’d call it smart if it weren’t for the fact the wolf followed their ragtag group right into battle whenever it was hanging around. Loyal and brave and fierce, just like his. Stupid and getting injured, just like his.

This time is no different. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough he tastes iron. 

They’re sitting in a wrecked clearing, having emptied it of the monsters occupying it just half an hour prior, and the wolf isn’t there with them. It had slunk away sometime in the aftermath, and Twilight, having been chasing down some stragglers in the surrounding woods, said he didn’t see it on the way back.

It’s just a wolf. Not his, never his.

Still, his fingers pause over the screen of his slate, hovering an inch above some meat. It’s injured, and it wouldn’t be catching prey tonight with the limp he saw it sporting.

His, the spoiled mangy mutt it was, liked gourmet meat the best. He didn’t like to reward it for getting injured, but it always seemed to heal faster whenever he fed it some.

“Are you making dinner?” Four asks, leaning over to peer at what Wild’s doing. Exhaustion is obvious in the way he slumps into Wild’s side, cheek squished into dirty fabric. It was a long battle, and they would probably feel a lot better with food. “Better make it fast, Sky ‘nd Wind are going to crash soon.”

Wild considers this. “I’ll make some meat skewers for them first, maybe an easy soup afterwards if anyone’s still hungry,” he decides. It’s simple work to prepare, just meat on a stick, some salt sprinkled on almost as an afterthought. Four keeps leaning on him, a grounding warmth against scars both old and new. It’s almost enough to get the memory of blood-slicked paws and matted fur out of his head.

He sets out another skewer. _In case someone’s really hungry_ , he tells himself, but even in his own head he isn’t convincing. If Four notices the extra, he doesn’t comment.

The skewers are eaten quickly, Sky and Wind dozing off immediately afterwards as predicted. Hyrule is herded off to his bedroll after all the healing he’s done, and Warriors isn’t far behind, face pale and drawn tight from lingering discomfort. Wild’s eyes are fixed upon the last serving that’s been left untouched as the others awake start sorting out night watches.

Four grumbles as Wild gets up, half-asleep and dislodged from his comfy pillow. “Where’rya going?” His heavy gaze tracks Wild’s movements as he grabs the remaining meat skewer. Wild holds it loosely, not putting it into his slate.

“Going for a walk.” He almost says _nothing’s wrong, don’t worry_ , but the words stick to his tongue. As he leaves the camp for the surrounding woods, the weight of eyes on his back quickens his pace.

The wolf has to be around here somewhere. Wild keeps half an eye out for tracks, but doesn’t bother beyond that. It’ll find him—another similarity between his and this one. Neither of them stray far. Instead, he listens to the sounds around him: the soft hooting of owls, the shuffling of a passing rodent, a breeze singing past some leaves…

_There._ The crack of twigs to his right accompanied by chain links clinking together.

Wild doesn’t stop walking, though he can’t help his ears pricking towards the sound. “You’re a stupid wolf, aren’t you,” he says, not turning around. It’ll hurt too much to turn around. Like this, he can almost keep pretending. He busies himself with finding a nice spot to sit next to a few glowing mushrooms. “C’here, sit with me.”

The sounds stop. Wild waits it out, carefully sticking the skewer in the dirt next to him and pulling out some supplies from his slate. Not much, just a roll of bandages and whatever he can use to make a poultice. By the time he’s pulled out the pestle to grind up some herbs, the wolf has limped over to lie down in front of him.

Before, he’d rarely work in silence. He’d threaten to mash in spicy peppers, scold his silly wolf, laugh about the explosion they’d caused. Even when language escaped his grasp, he’d hum as he patched up injuries. Now, he keeps his head down, eyes focused on the task at hand and lips pressed tightly together.

Its eyes on him feel just as heavy as his wolf’s were, the last time he saw it.

“Eat while I make this,” he says, unable to bear the stifling quiet. Without looking up, he grabs the skewer with his free hand and thrusts it to where he estimates its mouth is. He doesn’t see it, but he feels it bite into the meat with careful jaws, tugging the stick out of his grasp. He listens for the sound of it eating, first slowly, then more eagerly when it finds the food to its liking.

Unbidden, Wild’s lips curl into a smile. Gourmet meat is reliable like that.

He lets it eat without interruption. Only after he’s done with the poultice does he speak again. “Let me see your leg.” There’s no guarantee it can understand him, but when he reaches out, it allows him to gently pull its injured limb closer without a fuss.

Surprisingly, it already seems somewhat healed. Certainly not as deep as it looked across the battlefield, but a wound nonetheless. “Did someone help you?” he wonders out loud, pulling some water and a cloth to dab at it with. Already pretty clean—if there’s dirt, it’s probably from walking around the forest in the aftermath of the fight, and there’s no dried blood crusting the area. It’s quick work to trim fur out of the way, smear the poultice where it’s needed, and bind it with some bandages. The wolf protests none of it.

“Not like my wolf at all,” he finds himself murmuring as he examines it for any unnoticed wounds. “You’d think he’d know to stay still given how many times I had to patch him up.” There’s only a few cuts, all easy to care for. His hands go through the motions automatically.

A wet nose pokes at his knee when he’s done, and for the first time today Wild looks at it properly. It has the same markings as his did, yes, but so close like this, he can see more differences. They’re not as dark, the fur not as light, and this wolf looks younger, less mangy. Without thinking about it, he raises a hand to pat the scruff, swallowing harshly at the familiar feeling. 

He says to those same, same eyes, “Maybe you’re an ancestor. Or a reincarnation?” They blink at him, slow and sleepy. A memory flickers; him meeting a strange wolf near the castle, coaxing it into letting him pet it. They had sat just like this, and his wolf slept that night with its head on his knee. In the ruins, the only thing to worry about were Guardians, so Wild stayed still all night, warmed by both the campfire and the wolf pressed to his side.

Now, night has fully settled around them, dark and deep and alive with wildlife, and Wild grounds himself in the moment. Not his wolf. Wolfie.

A smooth tongue licks at his cheek, and he startles away with a choked laugh. “Hey,” he scolds, voice oddly raspy, “what’s that for…?” When he wipes at his face, his palms come back wet with tears. He doesn’t know when he started crying.

“Oh,” he says, choked up. The wolf is already so close, but it squirms its way even closer, making distressed little whines. “Oh,” he says again, helpless in the face of its comforting warmth and weight on his legs. “Hush, you. I’m the one crying here, stop looking at me like that.”

It doesn’t stop whining, staring at him with eyes he’d call sympathetic if they weren’t from the cause of his misery. Something in him smiles as he sees it. The rest of him just keeps crying, quiet shuddering sobs that he ducks to hide in the wolf’s fur. It has the gall to lie over his legs, even, and Wild has to fight as to not break completely.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, just that by the time he runs out of tears he feels wrung out and exhausted. His legs are getting numb. The wolf has stopped whining, at least, and it licks a little at his ear when he stops crying.

“Did you know,” he murmurs, “that mine didn’t have a name?” A grieving hand squeezes briefly before releasing his heart, and Wild lets out a hiccuping laugh into dark fur. This isn’t closure, far from it, but suddenly he wants to cut out the infestation in his chest, to let go of the mourning he never got the chance to do. “You do, though. Wolfie. Wolfie is a good name for a sweetheart like you, isn’t it? I just called mine friend, buddy. Big boy. Mister Snuffles, once, but he bit me for it.”

It’s probably one of his biggest regrets. Standing in front of the castle gates that day, watching the wolf shake itself and leave…

_Stay! Please, just stay. Please, please…_

He didn’t have a name to call it by. When it left for the last time, he couldn’t find it ever again. No amount of searching could bring a body or even bones, nothing to show it ever existed. He doesn’t have a name to call out for in his nightmares.

A year later, and here he is hugging another wolf, smaller and darker but with the same eyes, the same markings. Wolfie stays still in his arms when he squeezes tighter, a few remaining tears soaking fur. He takes a few shaking breaths, willing himself to calm down.

With weak hands, he pushes it off his legs. “C’mon, Wolfie, let’s get back to camp.” He doesn’t turn around to check if it follows, stumbling on numb legs towards where the others are. It feels like he’s carrying the back of a goron on his shoulders.

Time is the one keeping watch. He spares Wild a glance when he staggers into the clearing, gaze growing sharper with concern once he notices how haggard he looks. “I’m fine,” he interrupts before Time can ask. “I just want some sleep.”

The bedroll is lumpy and cold, but he’s too tired to care. He’s too tired to care about the wolf that curls up against him, either.

His dreams are individual grains of sand in a desert storm, flitting by too quick to see and slipping out of his grasp. Half memory, half imagination. A wolf by his side, a friend licking his fingers, cool water rushing around his ears as he pulls his silly companion out of a river yet again. A hand on his head—Wild thinks he opens his eyes. Grey fur under his cheek.

“I should have given you a reason to stay,” he sighs, a confession to the ghost lodged in his heart. The warmth pillowing his head shifts, and gentle fingers card through his hair.

“Sleep, Wild,” someone says, and he does, falling back into memories of a friend long gone.

**Author's Note:**

> trying my hand at angst!! tell me if its sufficiently sad. navi bot on the server said Touch of Comfort so yall narrowly escaped a full on breakdown in the woods :>
> 
> hope yall enjoyed <33


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